Nothing Could Be Sweeter
by maidmer
Summary: Ian doesn't want this writing thing (that's worth 40% of his grade) to be a romance cliché (written in Paris for fucks' sake), but the hot French barista guy is making it very hard to concentrate on something as trivial as work.
This was crazy. Insane. Unprecedented.

Ian had literally made a snap decision four months ago to turn in the form (at the last possible second) for taking a semester internationally. Not that he had any international travel experience or anything.

He was just lucky to have scraped a B in his high school French courses.

Because now Ian Hecox was a 20 year old American kid without any friends on an unfamiliar continent (This is what you get for never thinking ahead).

The plane had landed around half an hour ago, and all he'd done since entering De Gaulle was pace back and forth next to the baggage claim.

The only thought in Ian's head was all of the possibilities of fucking up in a foreign country.

Although even just the notion of getting in trouble with angry Frenchmen made his brow break into a cold sweat…

Ian was in a country he never thought he would ever see.  
And hey, if things go wrong there's always the student hotline (Right?)

He sighed.

At least he had euros to pay for a cab.

So Ian found the sign indicating 'exit,' and entered Paris.

* * *

It took over an hour to reach his boarding house, as the traffic here was hellish. (More than California, and that's saying something)

After thrusting some bills at the driver, Ian managed to find the building number, and cram himself through the battered door (literally wedged between a convenience store and a café).

And promptly found out his unit was in the attic.

Up three flights of stairs.

(At least the information packet said it would be mostly furnished)

Ian finally reached his door (number 9), and fumbled with the lock on the door, until literally falling into his new life.

What a metaphor. (John Green had nothing on Ian Hecox, managing to almost get a concussion on his first day in France)

And when he looked up, Ian could see the place was actually rather quaint, with a wooden desk, a small kitchenette, some threadbare rugs, and a full sized bed.

But what really caught Ian's eye was the sizable window seat that looked out on the winking buildings of Paris.

At least he had that much.

It was a this point that he looked at his watch, which told him it was very late (early, I guess?) back home, and that he should probably get some sleep before his first day in France.

So Ian did just that.

* * *

He was abruptly awoken (after what seemed like only five minutes) by a very loud, very abrupt knocking coming straight from the worn door he had left open (!) the night before. Ian managed to sit up slowly, rubbing the bleariness from his eyes.

Once he gained his bearings, he noticed the source of the dreadful noise- a very irritated middle aged woman, who was currently glaring at him from the doorframe.

« Pourquoi est la porte ouverte !? »

It took him a second before his brain could even process the foreign words. Oh. She was asking why he left the door open. (Shit)

« Je suis désole, j'ai volé en Paris retard hier soir. »

He felt kind of guilty, seeing as this poor lady is probably the landlord, who wakes up to see some pale kid with a weird haircut sleeping in her building.

She looked at him quizzically, and spoke again.

« Tu es Américain? »

Ian went for a good natured, cautious smile.

« Oui, Je suis étudiant des Etats-Unis. Je suis très fatigué, tu fais savoir où je pourrais trouve un café ? »

The woman's shoulders visibly relaxed, and she seemed more ready to help (seeing as she now knew this weird guy in her building wasn't a criminal, but a tenant).

« Si tu iras en bas, à gauche un café, pas très cher. Maintenant, ne laisse pas cette ouverture- voyant comme tu seras ici, pour quelque temps ! »

She gave him a small smile, and turned around to leave.

Ian felt like a piece of crap for scaring her.

« Encore, je suis désolé, merci pour ton aide. »

« De rien, monsieur. Si tu besoin de quelque chose, je suis en appartement numéro un.»

And with that, the landlady (he was pretty sure), went downstairs. It was then, and only then, did he realize the entire time, the only thing covering him was a pair of frayed sweatpants. (No wonder she was mad)

On that note, Ian finally managed to get on his feet, and really evaluate these surroundings. Wood floors, scuffed but in good shape. The kitchen had a little fridge, a stove, a coffeemaker, and a toaster. (He had forgotten many French people don't own microwaves. Fuck.)

The bed and desk were both made of sturdy wood, and as he scanned the room once more, Ian noticed a cushy armchair near the largest window, perfect for reading.

It seemed his living accommodations would fit everything he needed for the next six months (minus a microwave).

Now that Ian knew where he'd be living, it was time for food. He hadn't eaten since the half-frozen ratatouille on the plane. So he shuffled over to his suitcase, grabbed a baseball tee & some khakis, and slipped on some shoes.

It was breakfast time. (Yes it was 1:00om local time. No, Ian didn't care)

He slid his wallet and phone into his pocket, and took one last inhale before marching into the hallway.

And promptly screeching (in a very many voice, mind you), when his foot rested on a dead mouse.

What a way to start these next six months.

* * *

Yet, when he emerged onto the blinding, bustling street, the fuzzy grossness posing as a doormat was easily forgotten.

This, oh man this was why Ian had signed up for a (slightly sketch) study abroad program on a whim. An incredible city, his for the taking.

(He's such a fucking sap)

And when he turned around, to take in the extraordinary surroundings, his eyes fell upon the café Ms. Grumpy Pants mentioned less than an hour ago.

He had no other word for the shopfront other than adorable.  
(Less than 24 hours here, Jesus Christ)

The door was a dark wood, with six panes of glass, warped with time. There were two tiny tables next to the wide opened windows, through which Ian could see there were a few guests inside. The window frames and flower boxes were painted a light shade of robin's egg blue, the painted name of the shop above the door was hand lettered in dark weathered paint.

This was a place he could get used to.

So Ian stepped up and grasped the doorknob, pushing in, and was met with a gust of air that smelled like coffee and brown sugar. (Oh man he was already becoming a cheesy author cliche)

The inside was just as cute as the outer portion, with paintings crammed on the walls in a both messy and charming fashion. There was an assortment of armchairs and coffee tables, with different patterned rugs almost covering the wooden floors.

The register was located near the back door, with only one person behind the counter, a young guy grinding coffee beans. (Now he knew where that lovely smell was coming from)

But when the guy turned around, his eyes widened and he tripped (not unlike Ian himself had, less than half an hour ago), dropping what looked like quite a few pounds of ground coffee.

"Oh shit!" Ian lunged to try and catch the man, just grazing the guy's broad shoulders before they both crashed to the floor.

The guy looked up at him with big brown eyes and mouth open in surprise.

« Désolé! » The poor guy exclaimed looking so embarrassed to have stumbled in front of a customer. (Ian felt a bit like a dick for startling this young guy.)

"Dude it's al"- Ian remembered his current location.

« C'est d'accord. C'est de ma faute, désolé. Je, uh, je suis Américain, je viens d'arriver en France… »

(Hopefully his fairly competent French would cover his English cuss word mishap)

Surprisingly, the man (still) on the floor beneath Ian smiled at his statement, and cleared his throat.

"Oh- you're from the United States then?"

This guy's voice was beautiful, deep & melodic- and he spoke amazing English. (But didn't sound necessarily French, or even European for that matter)

"Uh, yea. I'm from Sacramento. I'm living in one of the units like right above this place. I'll be here for the next six months."

The barista smiled again, and sat up, helping Ian off the ground.

"Really? I've always wanted to go to the United States. Thanks, by the way, for trying to break my fall- that was very nice of you. And my name is Anthony."

The name seemed to fit the man, with wavy dark hair, dark brown eyes, and tanned skin. (A beautiful combination if Ian said so himself)

"I'm Ian. Now, seeing as you'll be seeing a lot of me for a while, let's get to know each other!"

That statement made Anthony grin, so Ian took as a sign to continue.

"Why don't we start with you explaining your intriguing combination of accents?"

(Ian hoped he didn't sound too forward, he was just genuinely interested)

Anthony's smile faltered slightly, but he composed himself as quickly as he had changed.

"That's a story that I need time to tell Ian."

He had no clue why the seemingly bubbly guy changed, but took it in stride. (Why not, maybe this dude would be a great foreign friend )

"I've got time- and you look like you need to talk to somebody, even the guy who caused you to trip over your own feet- let me stay please, and get to know you."

Anthony opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say to the bold American boy.

Ian took his silence as an invitation. (Anyway, standing around awkwardly was not his thing)

"Great! I'll find a seat and you can get drinks together! It'll be like 20 questions, world traveler edition!"

And as Ian turned on his heel to march to one of those squashy armchairs seen earlier, he swore he saw Anthony's lips turn up in a cautious smile.

* * *

But seeing Anthony's face fall so quickly just moments ago, made some of his excitement evaporate. All Ian could tell, was that Anthony needed a friend, and hopefully he could be that for this man.

The sound of light footsteps brought Ian out of his thoughts, and he twisted in his chair to see Anthony grinning, with a steaming mug in each hand.

"Good choice of seating- this is the best spot in the shop." And with that, the taller man took a seat across from Ian, and cracked his knuckles.

"So, Ian, considering that you have insisted on being in my presence, I'll have a chat with you."

Anthony smirked, sipping his drink slowly.

"But before I say anything about me, I would like to hear more about you."

Ian stopped mid swallow, and peered at Anthony through his lashes; this guy wanted him to share?" (Thinking about this now, he probably should've expected this, given that he just disrupted Anthony's workday. Whoops.)

"Alright, well, um, my name is Ian Hecox, and I- "

Anthony cut in.

"Ian, I know your name. And where you're from. Please, tell me about you"

Now Ian felt kind of foolish, especially because of his (rather rude) intrusion into Anthony's personal business. So Ian decided it was 'oversharing time.'

"Ok, so I'm a writer. Well, aspiring writer- not a bestselling author yet. I'm here to complete a 300-plus page fiction writing project. I guess I thought a change of scenery would be good for me."

Anthony looked genuinely curious about Ian's mundane interests.

"I think I want this piece to be about-" Ian paused, feeling his cheeks heat up, "Romance. I'm pretty sure I want to write a love story, which I know is a bit, um, stereotypical and rather stupid but I-"

Anthony cut him off again. (Which Ian was totally fine with, Anthony's voice was beautiful)

"That is not stupid Ian. I think it is magnificent. Also, the city of Paris is perfect for inspiration."

Ian's heart swelled because of the praise. This guy was more than just a handsome face.

"Thanks Anthony. That means more to me than you know."

Rather than respond immediately, Anthony smiled


End file.
